Otherwise Known as Possum Read online

  It might have been a trick of the sun that the edges of the pages looked covered in gold—or it might have been another sign from Momma. Maybe she worked this out with God to make up for me having to be at school.

  “Now, it’s not brand-new, but it was well cared for by a girl I knew who loved to have adventures. And she had many, in her mind, by reading these stories.”

  I felt my insides swoop like blue jays and heard myself give a sharp in-breath. Mary Grace looked my way, so I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue.

  “Don’t that girl want to go on ’ventures no more?” asked Connie. Then he stood, and said, “Sorrydon’t thatgirlwanttogoon’venturesanymoresorryandthankyoumiss,” and then sat down again real fast.

  Instead of getting angry, Teacher smiled. “You know, the thing about stories is that once you read them, really read them, they stay with you for always and always, and maybe you don’t even need the book anymore but can share it with other children who want to have adventures of their own. Children like you.”

  The teacher continued. “Sometime between now and parents’ night, each of you will write an essay.”

  “What will we write about, miss?” asked one of those blond preacher’s kids, maybe Ruth. She might have been the one played the lamb in last year’s Nativity.

  “Excellent question, Ruth,” replied the teacher. “I would like you to write on someone important to you. The student whose work this term shows the most improvement will receive this book as the prize.”

  It came to me all in a flash. Write the essay, win the prize, prove once and for all to everyone—Daddy, the biddies, Miss Teacher, Scary Face Mary Grace—that Momma was right and the learnin’ she gave me is a far-sight better than any teachin’ I could get. Not even Miss Nagy could argue with a prize that included golden-edged pages.

  After that, everything would return to normal. Or as near to normal as we could get without Momma. Daddy would forget all about his secret with Miss Arthington ’cause he’d have me to take care of him.

  Some of the class murmured. Conrad Harris groaned out loud and earned a look from Teacher for it. Mary Grace licked her lips like some kind of lowly beast, some kind they would not have let into the manger when Baby Jesus was born.

  Mary Grace picked up her pencil and wrote: “Essay, Imp person. FAIRY TALES!!!” The words fairy tales were underlined three times.

  She was in for a sad shock. I pictured myself under Momma’s pecan tree, reading to her and Baby. I wasn’t about to let a prissy little Kewpie doll take what was rightly meant to be mine.

  Mary Grace cupped one hand over her paper and wrote something else.

  “I’ll leave this book up here to inspire you all,” Miss Arthington said, placing the lovely thing on her desk. “The essays also will be judged on how well you follow the topic and your use of language. I look forward to seeing what you come up with,” Miss Arthington said. “I know you will make me proud.”

  Mary Grace shoved the paper my way. She’d written: “I’m going to win.”

  “That ogre on the cover looks just like you,” I whispered.

  Mary Grace Newcomb’s hand again swished into the air.

  I put on my innocent face from the nose up and covered my mouth with my hand. “My, what big ears you have.” I threw in a pig snort for good measure.

  On the schoolyard, away from Miss Arthington, Mary Grace got bolder than vinegar, talking about my hair and I don’t know what all. Luckily for me, usually she stayed inside for the chance to polish Teacher’s apple, but on that day, she had grabbed her dinner and practically skipped out.

  I had my own bucket and went looking for food and fellowship, as Preacher says. Unfortunately for me, Tully was still inside making right the sums he’d got wrong in the morning. But June May had to be around somewhere …

  Wait a second. Was that June May talking with Mary Grace?

  But no, here came June May toward me, grinning like a melon slice. Mary Grace must’ve been picking on her some, probably to get at me. I’d deal with Mary Grace later.

  “My ma makes all my pretty dresses and petticoats,” Mary Grace snorted loudly, twirling in the dirt near me. She was talking to the little girls, but I was sure she was doing it to bother me. I put my hand on the ear that had to suffer her most.

  “Let’s eat quick, June May. I got business with Tully.”

  June May put into her mouth a piece of corn bread that should not have fit and said, “You fixin’ to win that marble he got from his cousin this summer?” Only it came out, “You fifinwn ftmrfle he grfms hscsfn fis summer?”

  “You bet,” I said, wiping a bit of her corn-bread spittle from my cheek. “Come see.”

  But as I stood, somebody poked me from behind. Hard. I spun around, fists in the air.

  Mary Grace sang-song at me, “My ma curls my hair every day. I might get me a permanent wave next year.”

  Like I cared. “I’d give you a permanent wave good-bye if you’d go somewhere,” I said back. Then I pinched her arm hard, and she kicked at my shins, but missed, before running away.

  I set the rest of my lunch on the step and went over to Tully, who had just emerged from the schoolhouse and eaten his bread and butter before his feet left the porch. Nothing like a good game of marbles to put that fool girl out of my mind. In fact, for a while, I was blessedly unaware of where Mary Grace or June May or any of the kids had got to. I was hunkered down and about ready to whoop Tully and win away his prize cat’s-eye.

  Then from behind I heard, “Look at those wobbly biscuits!”

  I turned to see Mary Grace pointing to where I’d left my lunch. “My biscuits are just fine,” I said, “you ham.” She was that pink. I swear.

  I admit my biscuits weren’t always as round as they were creative, but who was Mary Grace to throw stones? Especially when she ate pork and beans from a can, which I wouldn’t feed to Traveler, just because her daddy took over the store and had fancy food to choose from on every shelf.

  I was real sorry when Scottie lost the store and Mister Newcomb took over. I was sorrier once I knew Mister Newcomb had brought along this dis-Grace of nature.

  I tried to ignore her and turned to Tully, who looked like he might cry, even though I was about to win that cat’s-eye fair and square. What was the matter with him?

  Suddenly, he hiccupped something fierce. “HI-I-I-C-IC-IC!”

  ’Course, it isn’t sporting to play marbles when you’ve got hiccups, so we had to stop. What surprised me was it turned out Tully didn’t know how to get rid of hiccups, and I had to stop everything right then and teach him. If I had a brother, this was the kind of thing he wouldn’t have to learn out in the world somewhere but would already know, thanks to me, when he got there.

  “What’m I s’posed to do?” Tully asked, like if I was queen of hiccups and all.

  I tried not to roll my eyes; GrandNam said that was a sin even if it wasn’t in the Bible and even if no one saw you do it. At times, Tully was too simple for his own good.

  “Tell them to go away,” I said. “Shoo,” I added for double measure.

  “Shoo,” tried Tully, right behind me as usual. Then, “HIC.”

  Some kids laughed. Ruth and the little girls in a corner of the yard stopped their clapping games and came near.

  “Remind those hiccups they are not welcome—never have been, never will be.”

  “You don’t got no call t’ HIC.” He sounded like a sick toad.

  “Put one hand on your waist and waggle a finger, like this.” I demonstrated.

  Conrad Harris and the middle-sized kids copied us. Good, I thought, they’re learning too.

  “It’s rude to point,” sneered Mary Grace from about six feet away, where I had not noticed her pretending not to notice us. She sniffed.

  Tully looked from me to Mary Grace. On its way back around, his turning-red head HIC’ed again something fierce.

  I’d had the worst town visit of my entire life. I had a daddy who seemed to have
forgotten my momma and was trying to make me forget her too. I couldn’t believe I had to put up with the likes of Mary Grace Newcomb on top of that, and I couldn’t even finish a danged game of marbles in peace and quiet.

  I ignored her with a long-suffering sigh and hoped Tully would do the same. To him, I said, “It’s okay to waggle your finger at yourself, like in a mirror.”

  “But I ain’t got no mir-HIC-ror, Possum,” Tully said, sounding like a scared little kid, which made the real little kids giggle.

  “Just pretend, Tully,” I said. “ ’Magine it.”

  “I’ll be your mirror, Tully,” Mary Grace said. That daft girl curved her arms above her head like if she was a ballroom dance in a marathon.

  I lost my concentration and spun on her. “MARY GRACE, YOU GOT MORE GABBLE THAN A GOBBLER.”

  Mary Grace turned another shade of pink and turned her back to me. She stepped away a few paces through the pack of my hiccup-lesson students.

  “I know something else,” Mary Grace chanted real loud. “I know somethin’ REALLY GOOD, if anyone other than CERTAIN PEOPLE wants to hear it.”

  I looked over my shoulder at her and darned if she didn’t have hold of half my crowd. “I know, and I’m gonna tell ’less’n that creature leaves me alone once and for all.”

  That girl passed gossip like cows pass gas. But I had no secrets from the likes of her, so I shrugged.

  “LizBetty’s daddy, Mister Porter, he’s sweet on Teacher.”

  I heard that lion roar in my ears, and my eyesight went black around the edges. “Shut up!”

  Mary Grace grinned. She knew she got me. “Your daddy’s sweet on Teacher.” She almost sang it.

  “I said SHUT IT, Mary Grace.” I tried looking away. The girls who played jump rope near the footbridge had stopped their twirling and hopping. The boys edged closer.

  “Your daddy’s a fool for love.”

  My head snapped back to her, and I sized her up. I was a mite small for almost twelve, and she was big for thirteen. I was an inch shorter but wiry and a lot stronger. My fists curled of their own volition.

  “Possum!”

  From far away I heard Tully’s voice, like from the bottom of a well. I ducked my head.

  “Possum! NO! Wait!”

  That last word turned into a wail, then into the sound of the wind in my ears as I took a running start and rammed into Mary Grace something hard. She went “OOF” into the dirt, curls and all, and cried a river.

  “Fight, fight,” cried Conrad Harris, but it was over before it started, for there was no chance that priss was going to take a swing at me. I was breathing hard but none the worse except for a scrape on a knee where I’d landed after I bounced off her belly.

  Ruth and some of the little girls had stopped their hopscotch and jump rope to help up Mary Grace and lead her into the schoolhouse, while a bunch of the boys came over and patted me on the back or shoulder.

  I felt like a hero, but I still got talked to. Miss Arthington said next time she’d tell Daddy. I didn’t want her talking to Daddy any more than she already had, so I promised to “be good,” whatever that meant. To me, it meant winning the essay contest, leaving school for good, and putting nothing but miles between Miss Teacher and Daddy.

  I didn’t even snitch about what Mary Grace said, so she didn’t get into trouble at all, even though I got a week of after-school chores.

  I knew I couldn’t let on, but it felt good to hit that girl. Fact is, the day you catch nothin’ fishin’ isn’t the day you talk about later. I knew it was shameful to feel so prideful and spiteful, and I told it all at the pecan tree that night. I think Momma understood. I really do.

  When it was time to go home, Teacher reminded us, “I hope you all have been working on your essays for parents’ night. If anyone would like to discuss his or her project, you may stay behind.”

  Mary Grace sucked her breath in across her teeth.

  “LizBetty, please sit with your hands folded until I give you your first chores.” It was the first day of my week-long punishment, doing chores after school.

  One way school’s like home is all the work to be done, and not just sums or book reports. The water pail has to be kept full with fresh, cold water from the pump in the yard. The floor needs sweeping, the blackboards washing, and the erasers beating. Wood doesn’t just walk in on its own, any more than ashes from the stove carry themselves out.

  Truth was, the work itself was no punishment—I’m strong and quick when I fix my mind to be. But all that quiet except for the sound of Miss Arthington’s pen and the rhythm of the clock was a special kind of torture. It was funny to me how I never heard the pendulum swinging when the room was full of learning, but in those afternoon hours, it was like to drive me mad with tick-tocking and Miss Arthington’s pen scratch-scratching along. It put me to thinking she might be writing secret notes to my Daddy, and the clock seemed to be counting down the minutes until she decided to ruin our lives forever.

  On the last Friday of that punishment, Teacher finally said I could go. I ran for the door and freedom and Miss Eulah’s place, for I needed to see her about a cure. Since none of my plans seemed to be working, it was time to consult someone with more experience in such matters.

  I was past the creek, over the first fence, across the gully, and up the slope when I remembered I’d left my dinner bucket. Shoot! I was running low on time, and it was getting dark. But I knew I’d need my bucket come Monday, so I turned back quick.

  Often as not, when I was kept after school for doing something that did not agree with Mary Grace, she would hang around like a noose and try to be useful, which was like asking a goat to say “please.” Didn’t she have anywhere to go?

  But so far I was in luck. No sign of Mary Grace in the yard. I opened the schoolhouse door quietly, hoping to avoid any unnecessary conversations.

  Right off, I saw Miss Arthington was alone, back to the door. She was leaning on her desk. I saw her shoulders shake and thought she might be laughing at something on the floor. Then, from the sounds she made, I realized she was crying.

  She wiped her cheek, and I saw a sheaf of pages in her hand. A letter! But who would be writing so to make her cry?

  She didn’t turn, so I guessed her own snuffly noises had kept her from hearing me. Quiet as catfish I backed out and closed the door.

  On the steps was the last person I expected to see at school after hours. What was a shame-faced Tully doing sneakin’ around there?

  Tully turned red and ducked his head. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward the creek.

  “What’re you doing here?” I whispered.

  “I … um … see … lookin’ for you?”

  “Here I am, plain as your nose. And make it quick; I need to get to Miss Eulah’s.”

  A shadow of what might have been worry crossed Tully’s face. “You sick, Possum?”

  Sick of Mary Grace.

  But I shook my head. “Naw, I need to see her about something special, about a cure. I don’t really wanna talk about it, but it’s for Daddy, if you must know. It was something I couldn’t even talk about with Momma, so I decided to go see Miss Eulah.”

  Tully motioned me behind the schoolhouse. We sat at the base of Hefty Rock before I asked again.

  “Whatcha lurkin’ around here for?” I poked my jaw toward the schoolhouse. Usually, he kept his distance from school like it was a rattler pit—actually more, ’cause a rattler pit would be more interesting.

  “Well, ya see.” Tully wasn’t much of a talker.

  Usually, I knew what he was thinking and asked it for him, then went ahead and answered him too. But this time, I was stumped on top of perplexed. I needed more to go on. “Spit at the devil, Tully, and spit it out.”

  “Okay, okay.” He swallowed and looked away. “I’m p—sh—M—eeg—s.”

  I breathed in. I rubbed my ears. I blinked my eyes. I wet my parched lips.

  “What?!”

  “I’mpartialtoMaryGrace
.”

  Tully spit it out all at once like if it was rattler poison, but I was pretty sure I’d made out the words all right. Just in case, he said it again, slower, like he was getting used to the idea himself.

  “I’m. Partial. To. Mary. Grace.” Then he ducked, like I might punch him, which I might have, had I not been more stunned than a wild turkey beaned by my flip.

  He was sweet on that, that … useless Mary Grace? I nearly fell over just with the thought of smacking him in the head.

  He could have said almost anything—that he was giving up hunting or decided to become Conrad Harris’s best friend. Anything. But—sweet on her? I thought I might be speechless. Though my speechlessness didn’t last long. “That, that, prissy little know-it-all?”

  I tried to recall if he’d knocked his skull harder than usual lately. “Why’re you talking crazy? Look at me.” I checked his eyes, and, no, they weren’t shifty, although they did look a might red. “You get into the dandelion wine again?” I was noting his symptoms; maybe Miss Eulah’d have a cure for him too.

  Suddenly, Tully gave what amounted to a sermon for him. “I want to make her like me. What can I do to make her like me?”

  His lip quivered too much to be playing a joke. I knew when Tully was lying. This was something altogether new.

  “Why don’t you just poke me in the eye while you’re at it, Tully Spencer? What for you askin’ me what girls like?”

  “I figured, with you being, you know, a girl—won’t … you help me, Possum?”

  “Tully. You. Mary Grace. That—no. No, I will not help you.”

  Would Miss Eulah have a cure for traitors? Or maybe a curse?

  “Possum!” he bleated.

  I couldn’t decide if there was something wrong with his voice or my hearing. It seemed I might be losing my best friend on top of my momma, my daddy, and my Nehi treats. Why didn’t he just take my dog and my flip, long as he was ripping my heart out?

  Tully whimpered like a sick sheep. “How can I get her to like me, Possum? She’s so … clean.”